


holy light, burn the night

by Casylum



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 08:24:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1544192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casylum/pseuds/Casylum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Besides, they’re in this together, Seth and him, together in this insular hell of booze, beatings, and the black and white films Seth loves so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	holy light, burn the night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Aisha](http://www.codependentsoulmates.tumblr.com/) for the [FDTD Exchange](http://www.fdtdexchange.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. 
> 
> As a note: I kept the basics of the show, but in terms of exact accuracy (i.e. dates, ages, locations) this takes major liberties. The original prompt was "smoke". Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Content warning for parental abuse.

When he’s six, and Seth is ten, he realizes there’s something wrong.

They never stay long enough in one place for him to judge against other kids, other families, but he’s got himself, and he’s got the families that flicker their way across hotel televisions. None of them have bruises ringing their necks, or had to go into the Emergency Rooms on one of the rare days Dad was working to ask what, hypothetically, for a school project, one might do to fix a broken arm.

Seth just smiles when he asks, pain only expressed through a clenched fist hastily shoved under the table. “I’m fine,” he says, “Dad just knows I can take it, knows I need it, to get strong, you know?”

Richie’s six, and it’s Seth that teaches him how to lie.

***

For the longest time, the years between six and seven-and-a-half, Richie can’t do anything, just watch. He almost asks Seth why he doesn’t fight back, is working himself up to it when he sees Dad start to move towards him, and Seth somehow manages to put himself between Richie and Dad’s fist with a smile and smart remark that Richie’s half sure he ripped off of Clark Gable.

After that, he gets angry.

***

There’s not much a seven-and-a-half year old can do, in terms of physicality. An eleven-and-a-half year old could probably do more, but Seth spends more time looking like hamburger than he does human. They haven’t been to school in almost four months, and Dad’s used that as license to hit harder, more often, and where people can see.

So Richie gets inventive, at least to begin with. The hotel rooms are always a few degrees too hot, or too cold, the fridge is always just a little warm, dollars start disappearing one by one from Dad’s wallet, and he and Seth are never in the room except to sleep. The first two are calculated to make Dad uncomfortable, to make him want to leave and drink somewhere else, and the third is to make him have to work just a little bit more, a bit longer, to be able to get what he wants.

Their Dad is bad, real bad, but even he knows that money doesn’t come from boys bleeding on the floor, choking back screams so the maid won’t get suspicious.

***

The fourth part is for him as much as it is for Seth. Richie loves his brother for protecting him, even as he hates him for not being strong enough to do more than take the hits. He understands why, he thinks, as much as a seven-and-a-half year old can. Dad is what brings them money, what pays for the hotel rooms, the gas, the beat up cars that seem to change as often as the scenery. Richie is smart, Seth is clever, but they’re young, and the world isn’t nice to young boys.

Besides, they’re in this together, Seth and him, together in this insular hell of booze, beatings, and the black and white films Seth loves so much.

***

When he’s twelve, he shoots up like a weed, towering over Seth, and topping Dad by at least an inch. Seth’s older, past sixteen, but he hasn’t gotten any taller than the 5’7” he hit just over a year ago. There are reasons for that, reasons Richie doesn’t like to think about, but none of that matters now, because even though he’s not six anymore, he’s still angry.

He waits until they settle a bit, where Dad’s got a job as a foreman at a local steel foundry, and they’ve moved into an apartment that’s pay by the month, instead of by the week. Dad’s comfortable now that he’s gotten used to having money, comfortable enough that he won’t want to move them again, not if he doesn’t have to. Richie knows this, not because Dad’s happier, or they’ve got more permanent housing, but because Seth’s face is clear of bruises for the first time in four years.

***

It’s a Friday when he does it.

Dad’s just come home from the bar, not quite stumbling, but not steady either. Seth does something, Richie can’t quite tell what, but suddenly the beer he’d been sent to fetch from the fridge is in Dad’s hand and coming down with a sickening thud on Seth’s collarbone before shattering. Seth drops, partly from the pain, and partly because Richie knows he’s learned that the faster he goes down the sooner Dad gives up.

Richie just, well. He can’t say he snaps, because it’s too premeditated for that. Breaks is probably the better word, he finally breaks, just takes three short strides across their tiny living room, and delivers the best right cross of his life. Dad slams to the floor, the glass-jawed son of a bitch, shaking the flimsy walls. He’s not above kicking a man when he’s down, is, in fact, all for it, no matter what Lawrence Olivier has to say, but Seth’s still on the ground, and this time, Richie doesn't think he’s faking it.

He hauls his brother up in a fireman’s carry, takes a second to determine that, yes, Dad did fall on most of the pieces of broken glass, and walks out, mentally calculating just how long it’s going to take him to walk the two miles to the free clinic.

***

From then on, their positions are reversed, in a way. Dad still goes straight for Seth (though now, Richie’s pretty certain, because he knows Seth won’t give him problems, not because Seth’s made sure he will), but Richie’s always there, and he hasn’t had sixteen years of being beat to shit daily to instill fear, just six years of pure anger.

He’s not exactly sure what a social worker would call it, a twelve year old boy routinely knocking out a forty-three year old man to save a sixteen year old boy from a beating, but Richie calls it necessity.

***

Eight months later, Richie’s gotten really good at hitting Dad in the right place with enough force to, when combined with the alcohol, put him out long enough for Seth and him to sleep, eat dinner and breakfast, and leave for school. Seth doesn’t say anything, just gives him odd looks from time to time, and, though Richie wouldn’t swear to it, he seems to be building an anger of his own, though his is directed inward, in opposition to Richie’s solidly outward fixation.

***

In June, after Seth’s turned seventeen and Richie’s riding the edge of thirteen, there’s some school event Seth’s mandated to go to, as punishment for punching out some senior who’d made the mistake of calling him pretty. Once they get there, it turns out that the event in question is the high school’s annual sale of mulch and surplus wood, all donated by hardware stores and construction sites around the area.

Technically Seth’s the only one required to come, but they’re both there, because the only other place they have to be is home, and it’s Dad’s day off. Richie’s put on accounting, partly because his brother can be a tad forceful, but mostly because he’s damn good with numbers, and the others are only too happy to put him, at least unofficially, in charge.

It’s a nice day: clear, bright, and getting warmer as the hours drag on. By the time noon hits, the heat is rolling off the asphalt in waves, enough so that the trucks parked on the other side of the parking lot look like they’re underwater.

Richie’s sweating through his t-shirt just sitting at a table, he can’t imagine what the other kids, the ones that are actually lifting the bags and beams and loading them into various vans and pick-up trucks must feel like. He scans the parking lot, looking for his brother’s black t-shirt, the one with _The Dead Kennedys_ scrawled across it in a splash of thick white font. They’d picked it up in a thrift shop three states over, and Richie’s seen it a thousand times since then, but he can’t find it.

Can’t find Seth, until he hears his voice shouting down from a pile of mulch bags stacked about ten feet up, and then he stares. Now he knows why he couldn’t find Seth’s shirt, because Seth doesn’t have it on. He’s just standing there, bandanna tied over his short hair, shorts slung low on his hips, and nothing but white skin in between.

_No bruises_ , is what Richie thinks, after the shock wears off, a smile spreading across his face. _He doesn’t have any bruises_.

***

Five months later, Dad’s been promoted, and they've moved from the apartment to a small house that only looks partially condemned. Seth’s got something like friends, and Richie’s off on a weekend field trip for the Mathletes. The only reason he’s going is because Seth’s got a place to stay while he’s gone, and because he’s worked damn hard to get where he is.

The competition goes great, with his team nearly sweeping the freshman level, losing out only in the final round because one of them drops a negative, and no one notices until it’s too late. He comes back on the bus elated, sitting down on the steps of the school to wait for Seth and his friend to come pick him up, a smile still permanently stuck on his face.

An hour and a half later, he’s not smiling, just tapping his foot nervously, and rummaging through his backpack to see if he has enough change to catch the bus home. Two quarters, six nickels, eleven pennies, and one extremely thin dime later, he’s sitting in a cracked plastic seat, and his foot is tapping hard enough to rattle his skull. If Seth had been busy, his friend would have still picked Richie up, just with the addition of an explanation and a drop off point somewhere other than their house. If the friend had said they were busy, Seth would’ve been there anyway, double bus fare in hand, and questions about the mysteries of mathematics and geek conventions to fill the ride back.

‘Seth will be here’ had been his mantra for the last two hours, but now it’s switched over to ‘Seth will be okay’, because the only reason he wouldn't have come and gotten Richie was if he was hurt somehow, or dead. Richie can accept hurt, he’s seen hurt too many times to have it be the end all be all, but death isn't an option when it comes to Seth.

The bus drops him off in a cloud of diesel smoke, and Richie crosses the street as soon as it’s pulled far enough away, hitting the sorry excuse for their lawn in record time. The door’s not locked, because a house with locks is a house that Dad, at his most knackered, can’t get into. It hits the wall with a bang, followed by Richie’s bags, and echoes over the buzzing of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

“Seth?” He calls, hating the fact that his voice wobbles just a bit. “Seth, you home?” Richie moves further in, eyes adjusting to the dimness. There are drapes on the windows, left from the previous owner, but there are no ties, so the room is a murky golden brown instead of the harsh piece of shit it actually is.

Having cleared the living room, he leans into the kitchen for a moment, but his brother isn’t there.

“He’s asleep,” Richie says aloud, as if talking it out will make it more believable. “He’s had a long weekend, Dad’s out, he’s asleep, he didn’t forget, because he wasn’t awake to, he’s just asleep.”

There’s a long hallway that leads from the kitchen, with two rooms going off of it before it splits into a T-junction. Richie’s room is on the left, and the other room is a bathroom.

Seth isn't in either of them.

As he gets closer to the end of the hall, he can hear the buzz of flies, like Dad’s opened the window and left food out again, except it’s coming from the wrong side. Richie slides his hand along the wall, feeling for the light switch, almost wrenching it off the wall when he finds it.

The lights are old and fluorescent, the hallway painted dark brown and left to peel, the carpet industrial white long since turned grey. Seth’s in the middle of it, unconscious, the carpet around him turned rust-brown except for the parts closest to him, which are still a deep, wet red. His face is swollen, his nose definitely broken, and there are cuts on his arms and chest that look like someone went after him with a knife. Flies buzz in a swirling cloud above him, shifting whenever he moves. Every time he takes a breath, something rattles, and each one sounds shallower than the last.

Richie turns around, takes a step, almost vomits, then keeps going. The phone is in the kitchen, the phone can bring help, the phone can, he hopes, save his brother, because this time he doesn’t think he can carry him, not like this. He gets there, dials 911 with fingers that shake just a little too much, almost forgets their new address, even though they've been here almost half a year.

Once they say someone’s on their way, he drops the phone, letting it hang by the cord, and walks back to Seth.

He sits there in silence for what seems like forever, counting breaths and swatting flies, trying not to take notice of the blood still seeping out of his brother’s body.

“I’m gonna kill him,” he says, when he finally hears the sirens, the _right_ sirens, in the distance. “I don’t care what happens, I’m gonna kill him.”

***

Seth’s admitted into the hospital with multiple lacerations, two cracked ribs, and a possible head injury. Dad’s nowhere to be seen, and Richie tells the receptionist that they’re orphans, and that the S. Gecko on the deed to the house is Seth. He tells the cops that Seth’d been home alone, and that the house must've been burgled. It looks shitty enough to be true, and mostly they’re focused on the fact that a seventeen year old kid is taking care of a thirteen year old alone. He lets them, because by the time they get around to doing anything, they’ll be gone.

It’s funny how, in a hospital room, every noise becomes important. The beep of the EKG, the squeak of the nurses’ shoes, the different, but still important squeak of a gurney rolling by, the sound of slow breaths in dead air. The sound of those breaths quickening along with the EKG, the slight moan as Seth wakes up and Richie relaxes for what feels like the first time in years.

“Hey,” he says, from his place by the bed.

“Hey,” Seth croaks, eyes darting quickly around the room, cataloging everything, before settling back on Richie.

“How you feeling?” He asks, leaning forward.

“Like shit,” Seth says, eyes narrowing. “Why’d you bring me to the hospital?”

“Found you bleeding out on the floor,” Richie shrugs, trying to hide just how desperate he’d been. “Didn't think you’d like dying there.”

“Don’t think I’d like dying anywhere,” Seth says, trying to sit up, before giving up with a moan. “On the floor, huh? I don’t remember that.”

“What do you remember?” He doesn't want to know. He has to, but he doesn't want to.

Seth grunts. “Was over at Jeremy’s, you know, the guy from detention? One who kicked Stevenson in the nuts for saying his sister was a retard?” Richie nods, and Seth continues, “Well, he sends me out for snacks, because he’d gone earlier, and it was only fair, but I guess Dad had the same idea and I picked a friend too damn close to our house, because he spots me as I’m leaving and he’s coming in, and he grabs me and just... _drags_ me back to our place.

“And I’m freaking out, because Jeremy doesn’t know where we live, you know? Just that it’s somewhere in this area, and he’s already smashed to boot, so he probably wouldn't notice that I didn't come back ‘til the morning after, and then he’d just figure that I’d had to leave and would explain at school, you know? And if Jeremy doesn't know jack shit, then neither will you, because it’s not like I can call your teacher and be like ‘Excuse me, but would you mind holding on to my little brother? My Dad’s going on a rampage and I’d rather he not get caught in the middle’.”

Seth sighs. “But, of course, this has to be the night Dad’s drunk as all hell, is feeling mean, and pulls a knife on me when I won’t tell him where you are. I don’t remember much after that, except that he was worse than usual.

“Much worse,” Seth finishes quietly, and Richie has to resist the urge to leave now, just walk out of the hospital, and keep going until he finds their Dad and sticks a pitchfork through his chest a couple dozen times.

***

The hospital lets Seth go a few days later, burdened with a bag of bandages, painkillers and instructions, and hospital bills neither of them want to think about. There’s a reason they use the free clinic for most of their needs, and not even Richie’s fund of pilfered ones is going to be able to cover this.

The house is still a mess when they get back, the carpet still bloodstained and the flies multiplying like, well, flies. Richie’s door has been closed, however, so it’s relatively clear of them, and he argues Seth around to staying in there until he can figure out a way to salvage the back half of the house from his Dad’s homemade abattoir.

There’s a shed out back, one that came with the house and hasn’t been touched since. The doors screech as rust pulls away from rust, and the inside is full of nothing but an ancient lawnmower, three squat drums of something, a rusted out propane tank, and a red plastic can of gasoline. An application of nose to drum reveals that they’re all filled with more gasoline, presumably for the lawnmower, which must take as much gas as a small plane to need that much on reserve. Aside from that, however, there’s nothing useful in the sheetmetal enclosure, certainly nothing that can kill flies on a mass scale or get bloodstains out of carpet.

Seth’s asleep when he goes back inside, is asleep when he bars the door from the inside before going out the window and re-entering the house from the front door, is asleep when Dad stumbles in at one o’clock in the morning from wherever the hell he’s been. He doesn't seem to notice Richie, or the flies, or the blood, or seem to care what may or may not have happened to Seth, just slams through the house in a haze of alcohol, before dropping onto his bed with a whine of springs, which is shortly followed by rumbling snores.

Richie follows him after the snoring starts, leaning against the doorframe, staring at the lump of drunken humanity that’d nearly killed his brother on more than one occasion, had ruled both their lives with the sort of abject terror only adults can instill in children. He’s still angry, no matter how long it’s been since he’s been coldcocking his Dad instead of his father coldcocking Seth, and he doesn't think he’ll ever stop being angry.

There, in the dark, in his anger, Richie finalizes an idea he’s been working on for six years.

***

He moves Seth out first. He’s never done this before, will hopefully never have to do something quite like this again, but he won’t risk his brother’s life, especially not so soon after saving it.

He puts him on a pad of folded blankets out by the shed, the bag they got from the hospital sitting next to it, a suitcase full of both their clothes sitting next to that. All of their money is in that suitcase, along with everything else they've ever cared about, besides each other.

Getting the gasoline in the house is easy. Soaking his Dad’s bed without waking him up is a little difficult, but Richie’s had plenty of practice moving around while he’s conked out. After the bed comes the floor, the walls, the carpet in the hallway, anything and everything. He’s not particularly worried about the Fire Marshall, because he’s pretty certain the only official system he and Seth are entered into is the local school system, and even there everything but their names are made up. Arson, when its called, will be looking for a suspect, but it won’t be looking for Seth or Richard Gecko.

When he gets to the kitchen, he stares at the stove for a bit, contemplating. He’d turn it on, shut all the windows and let natural gas fill the house as well as gasoline, but he doesn't know how the two will interact, if one will spontaneously combust the other, and he can’t risk it. Instead, he just digs around until he finds a giveaway matchbook from his Dad’s favorite bar, walks to the back door, trailing gasoline behind him, lights the whole book, and tosses it into the center of the path.

It goes up with a _whoosh_ , flames licking their way down the hallway in all three directions, and climbing the walls. There’s a roar when it gets to Dad’s bedroom, the sheer concentration of gasoline sending it up in a bright flare before settling down. Richie could almost swear that he heard a scream in the middle of it, but he’s not certain, and he doesn't care.

If their Dad survives, he’ll hear about it, and he’ll take care of it, but for now, he’s got a brother to carry, a hotel room to book, and a map to buy.


End file.
